SONNET XVIII: ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT - Aphra Behn Poems

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones;Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moansThe vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth swayThe triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy wayEarly may fly the Babylonian woe.